


Duet

by MelayneSeahawk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Book Elements, Celestial Harmonies Zine, Hark the Herald Angels Sing, Jewish Angelology, Jewish theology, M/M, Show Elements, Singing, The Author Is Jewish And Back On Her Bullshit, The Silmarillion References, or something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:28:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22931005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelayneSeahawk/pseuds/MelayneSeahawk
Summary: Crowley himself had sung stars. Sometimes, when he looks up into the night sky with the special vision that only immortal beings have, he can see them, spinning along on their own special paths through the universe. The only proof that Crowley was ever something else. Something more.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54
Collections: Celestial Harmonies Issue 1





	Duet

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Celestial Harmonies Zine Issue 1 (originally published 2/20/2020), which can be downloaded for free [on their website](https://celestialharmonieszine.tumblr.com/post/190931641706/celestial-harmonies-issue-1)
> 
> Elements of Jewish theology used here, as well as some inspiration taken from J.R.R. Tolkien's Silmarillion

Once upon a time (what a way to start), before he was Crowley or even Crawley, he used to sing. Of course he sang. He was an angel.

All angels sing, it’s why they’re sorted into choirs.

Unlike some angels, whose song was about the Glory and the Grace of G-d, Crowley-that-was had a more functional song. His choir sang the World into being, to entertain their Lord: Earth and sky, land and sea, plants and animals, fish and birds. Crowley himself had sung stars. Sometimes, when he looks up into the night sky with the special vision that only immortal beings have, he can see them, spinning along on their own special paths through the universe. The only proof that Crowley was ever something else. Something more.

***

As much as he jokes and dissembles ( _ sauntered vaguely downwards _ , right), Crowley knows exactly why he Fell: he asked a question. Well, he asked lots of questions (why are we creating? why make creation  _ this _ way rather than  _ that _ ? and so on), but it was one specific Question that sent him skinny-dipping in hellfire: Why create Humans, only to make them suffer? It seemed like a flaw in the Plan, like something so glaringly obvious that it was amazing someone else hadn’t caught it. Crowley had been mildly incredulous when he’d raised his hand to ask, perplexed that the songs of creation had passed into the hands of the angels that would sing them into being with this massive defect still in place.

The Seraphim and the Cherubim, all the angels of Law and Land and Love, of Truth and Torah, had stared at him, their unnumbered eyes wide and staring, and that’s when he’d begun to burn.

Despite the outcome, despite everything that came after, Crowley doesn’t regret the asking.

***

Like every demon, Crowley lost a good many things when he fell, carved from him like whittled wood or marble to create a completely different shape. His Grace and most of his wings, of course, but also his lovely name and his ability to say the holy words. And he lost his ability to sing.

He still has a sense of rhythm (not that it helps his dancing), and he can hum along to a tune. He still has perfect pitch, a blessing/curse given to any being that is part of the fabric of the universe the way an angel or demon is. He could probably play a musical instrument if he bothered to learn, but he’s never tried, worried that even that had been taken away.

So Crowley has listened, treasuring every interesting song he encounters, from the mbira in Zimbabwe to ocarinas in Mesoamerica, symphonic orchestra pieces from Italy and opera from China. India’s sitar reminds him most of the music of the spheres, with its sympathetic vibrations and semitone scales.

For good or ill, it reminds him of Heaven, back when Heaven was still home.

***

Crowley has been trying to update Aziraphale’s taste in music for almost a century. Like many things about the angel, his music taste was dreadfully modern until about 1885 and then he just stopped (the  _ rest _ of the angel’s preferences date from the 1950s). He acquired a gramophone sometime while Crowley was sleeping after their holy water fight, and Crowley has made a habit of bringing him new records whenever something catches his fancy, either because he thinks the angel will like it, or because he knows the angel really, really won’t.

(Crowley is very sad that camera phones didn’t exist in 1956 when he brought Aziraphale Elvis Presley’s first album. His  _ face _ .)

Sometimes the music Crowley wants to show him isn’t available on a record, and since the Apoca-don’t Crowley has used that as an excuse to drag Aziraphale to his gradually more homey flat, where he has every sort of sound-replaying equipment from Betamax onward.

Sometimes they’ll banish Crowley’s coffee table and dance, though they spend almost as much time tripping over each other’s feet and laughing about it as they actually spend dancing.

Crowley is showing Aziraphale an up-and-coming French jazz singer (thank Someone for Spotify; he hadn’t had a hand in making it, but it was the best way to find new music for Aziraphale), swaying together to her recording of “Someone to Watch Over Me”, when Aziraphale stops and pulls back, catching Crowley’s eye.

“You’re humming,” Aziraphale says, when Crowley gives him a quizzical look. “To the music.”

“I’m allowed,” Crowley says defensively, the ingrained instinct to not show too much emotion, to not scare Aziraphale away, still strong.

“Of course you are, my dear,” Aziraphale says, squeezing their linked hands. They’re still standing close together, hands on hip and shoulder. Closer than they’d ever been a mere six months before, though they haven’t taken that last step Crowley is so desperate for. He won’t push, he needs Aziraphale to come to him. In this brave new world they live in, he’s still afraid of scaring the angel away. “Do you ever sing along? I’m sure you have a lovely voice.”

Crowley throws him a lopsided smile. “I used to. Not anymore.” Aziraphale’s eyes widen as he understands, and Crowley holds up a hand before he can stammer an apology. “It’s alright, angel.”

“I’ll sing for both of us, then,” Aziraphale says, eyes scanning Crowley’s face. He must be satisfied by whatever he sees, because he nods slightly, drops their linked hands, and brings his palms up to cradle Crowley’s jaw. “My darling,” he breathes, and presses his lips to Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley’s throat may not be able to sing, but his heart certainly can.

**Author's Note:**

> [reblog link](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/post/611163011741335552/duet-melayneseahawk-good-omens-neil-gaiman)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://melayneseahawk.tumblr.com/)!


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